


Nudge Theory

by webcricket



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-10-02 20:50:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10227080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket
Summary: A five act mini-series. The reader and Castiel must work together to solve the curious case of the missing Winchesters. Fluff, smut, and a plot for kicks.





	1. Act I

“Sam? Dean?” Your voice reverberated off the tiled walls of the sprawling bunker, announcing your arrival, tone becoming tinny when they failed to respond, “The door was unlocked. I let myself in.” Feet clanging on the metal staircase, you endeavored to make your presence known - the last thing you wanted to do was catch experienced well-equipped potentially trigger-happy hunters off guard in their own home. You made your way over to the map table, tossing your bag on a chair, eyes roaming the spacious room for any signs of life, “Guys?” Silence greeted your ears. Grumbling a muffled expletive, you dug the phone out of your pocket, scanning for any new messages, scrolling back to confirm that Sam’s text yesterday did indeed ask you to meet them here, in Lebanon, in the bunker, to ride back up on a big case. You owed them more than you generally cared to acknowledge in their presence, and dropped everything to show, no questions asked - and they had the audacity to be somewhere else when you arrived. Breath puffing out your cheeks, you noted with amused annoyance that you’d never been stood up by two men at the same time, let alone brothers. You hastily typed a _where-the-hell-are-you-it-better-not-be-buying-beer_ text to Sam, muttering under your breath, “Freaking Winchesters.” Your finger hesitated over the send button, soft footfalls heralding the approach of someone in the hall. Shoving the phone back into your pocket, trembling adrenaline-fueled fingers instinctively brushed the cool metal of the pistol tucked under your arm. Releasing the safety, you withdrew the weapon, backing up to the stairs, steadying your aim at the doorway, “Who’s there?”

A dark-haired man in a billowing tan trench coat appeared at the threshold, clenching his jaw, pausing only a moment to study you and the gun disinterestedly before taking several steps forward, blue-eyes gleaming intensely as they narrowed their focus on you. His voice intoned a suppressed wrath, “Where are Sam and Dean?”

In affront to the overwhelming base instincts for self-preservation coursing through your veins and urging you to do otherwise, you lowered the gun. Although you’d never met him, you recognized the fallen angel from Dean’s descriptions, right down to the skewed tie. Of course, Dean had failed to mention the angel happened to be disarmingly handsome - a fact that did not go unnoticed by you despite his current intimidating method of inquiry. You held up an open palm, imploring him to back off, making a show of holstering the pistol, “You’re Castiel.”

He froze, a glint of surprise betraying his austere expression, “I am. Who are you?”

“A friend. Dean has told me a lot about you,” you proffered an open hand, “I’m Y/N.”

He glowered at your hand until you awkwardly withdrew it, rumbling thunder still underlying his tone, “Do you know where Sam and Dean are? Dean asked me to meet them here.”

Wiping your rejected palm sheepishly across your jeans for lack of anything better to do with it, you chewed the inside of your cheek, “All that motor mouth Dean does is talk and talk and he’s never even mentioned me, right? Y/N, awesome hunter, upper Michigan peninsula, great ass, nothing?” You arched an eyebrow, finally determining a use for your wayward hand, planting it on your hip for emphasis.

“I do not listen to everything Dean says,” the angel’s scowl deepened, impervious to your subtle attempt at flirtation. He wagged his chin in frustration, whirling away with an exaggerated shrug, “It is often necessary to, what’s the phrase?” He blinked pointedly, pivoting back toward you, “Tune him out.”

“Yeah, well I can relate, Dean does say a lot of things,” you fidgeted under his fierce regard, nervously laughing in an attempt to lighten the mood, “especially if there’s cheap whisky around. And being hunters, there’s always cheap whisky around. Kind of goes with the territory.”

The angel’s stolid features marginally relaxed, blue eyes drifting back to meet yours, eddying with a shared sympathy, “I have noticed he often uses a lot of words to convey very little information.”

There it was, the tenseness fled the room – you’d managed to break through the icy front the angel had constructed. The thought that Dean also hadn’t mentioned the angel was funny crossed your mind - a self-satisfied smirk blossoming across your lips.

“That’s not what you meant,” he frowned at you, forehead knitting in consternation.

“No Cas, that’s exactly what I meant,” stepping closer, motioning to place a hand commiseratively on his arm, you wavered, instead electing to hook your thumbs in your pockets, rolling onto your heels, “well look at that, not even five minutes and we’ve already bonded over that flap-mouthed Winchester.”

Staring wordlessly into your eyes, the angel’s expression regressed to a state akin to mild perturbation.

 _Right_ , you remembered with a blink, _missing brothers_ , priorities. Clearing your throat in a compulsion to fill the silence, you spun around, walking toward the table, retreating from his disquiet eyes, “Alright then, what do you know about this case they are working?”

“Nothing,” he swept along beside you, seeming to have zero regard for the conventional boundaries of personal space, “only that Dean asked for my assistance.”

You didn’t mind the intrusion – the angel smelled wonderful, and distracting. You weren’t entirely sure the scent of distraction was even a thing until now – the soft sigh slipping past your lips confirming without a doubt that it most definitely was a thing - a thing that was very distracting indeed. _Winchesters_ , some part of you not yet intoxicated by the angel’s proximity prodded. Reining in your wandering imagination, you angled your neck to peer into his face, praying he didn’t sense how flustered you felt in his presence, “Same. Sam’s text said they needed backup, to meet here, that’s all. No details.” _You idiot_ , your brain scolded itself, _quit praying, he’s an angel, he can probably hear you_.

Cas returned your gaze - the prolonged eye contact being something that should disconcert you, but didn’t coming from those brilliant blues. He squinted at you curiously, nostrils subtly flaring. Then, as if shaking off a sudden chill, he twitched, taking an uneasy step back, tongue darting out to wet his dry lips. He peeled those reflective blue pools away from you, electing instead to study the ceiling, “It’s been five hours and twenty-four minutes since I arrived to find the bunker empty. Their car is missing from the garage and neither of them is answering my calls.”

“Okay,” you pressed your lips thin, the reality of actual worry setting in, “well, there has to be something around here to give us some idea of where they are…”

“Perhaps Dean’s computer will help,” Cas interrupted, “he left it in the library.” He fled to the far door, you trailing not far behind. Cas approached the unassuming piece of technology with trepidation, glancing sidelong between you and the table.

“No computers in Heaven?” You quipped, sitting in the chair and scooting closer to the table.

The angel gave you an almost reprimanding glare, “I find them to be needlessly complicated machines.”

“Uh huh, well, I’m sure you’re good at a lot of other things,” raising your hands apologetically, you rubbed your palms together before flipping open the laptop. The visual of a well-endowed scantily clad Asian bombshell folded into an impossibly bendy position greeted your eyes. Biting your lower lip, bodily wincing in empathy for her plight, you pondered aloud, voice cracking, “I mean, is that even possible?”

Cas’ hand gripped the chair back as he leaned over your shoulder to study the screen in a genuine attempt to answer your question.

Salacious moans and groans began to emanate unsolicited from the speakers. Cheeks flushing red hot, you quickly bashed the escape key several more times than was actually necessary to close the window. You gulped hard in a failed attempt to squelch your riled nerves.

The angel’s warm breath puffed across your ear as he spoke, affect flat, “No, I do not believe that position is physically possible for a typical human form to attain. She appears to be modified.”

“Yeah, uh, thought so,” you stammered, mouth dry, the tiny hairs on the back of your neck standing at attention. Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, paralyzed at the thought of what Dean’s browser history might reveal next. Realizing you’d really prefer not to have an angel literally over your shoulder for the distinct possibility of discovering more porn, you twisted in the chair to address him, winding up closer than expected, nose-to-scruffy chin, “Hey, uh, maybe you should check their rooms? Could be some clue there we could use.”

He rigidly straightened up, a wave of relief whooshing across his features. Nodding agreeably, he disappeared into the hall.

You exhaled a heavy sigh, diving unhindered into the task at hand. You quickly discovered that before Dean embarked on a colorful journey into the world of online adult entertainment, he had spent a significant amount of time researching a town in New York called Clifton Springs. There seemed to be a historically repetitive spate of unusual deaths in the town occurring every 13 years, and due to begin once more in a few days. It immediately struck you as something the brothers would be compelled to investigate, and certainly something for which they’d want back up in the form of another kick-ass hunter and a powered-up soldier of the Lord. It did not, however, give you any idea as to why they were missing days before the mysterious deaths were slated to begin. Maybe they got a head start? Forgot to leave a note? Forgot to charge their cell phones? You began to absent-mindedly chew your fingernails, lost in thought.

“These were on Sam’s desk,” the organic plop of leather on wood shocked you from your reverie.

Your eyes roamed over the collection of news clippings and leather bound journal Cas spread out before you on the table. The journal was open to a page of particular interest, chronicling John Winchester’s hunt at Clifton Springs Sanatorium, precisely 13 years prior. “That’s it,” you pointed at the journal, “Clifton Springs, it’s all over Dean’s history too. It must be where they are headed.”

“Then we should depart immediately,” he began to gather the papers into the journal.

You slid away from the table, standing, closing the laptop and sticking it under your arm, “Great, I’ll just grab my stuff. Who knows, we might even beat them there. I can hardly wait to see the looks on their faces. You know, after I tear them each a new one for leaving us in the dust.” You stepped toward the map room, pausing to spin on your heel, inquiring, “Um, what should I know about this whole flying business anyway? I mean, I’m sure Dean was exaggerating when he described the experience.”

The angel’s shoulders dropped. He ceased collecting the papers and shifted his gaze up slowly to focus on you, sad resignation churning in his eyes, “We must travel by car. My wings, I-I can’t…not anymore.” He pressed his eyes shut, chin dropping to his chest.

“Right, of course,” your stomach sank, the deep pain caused by your assumption clearly evident by his reaction, “I’m sorry, for whatever happened. It must be hard for you.”

His eyes opened again, shining wetly as they sought out yours, “Thank you. It’s been an,” he hesitated, searching for the right word, “an adjustment.” He glanced away, closing the journal, placing it carefully inside his coat pocket.

“I’m parked out front, unless you want to take your car,” you started back toward the map room to get your bag.

The angel remained silent in answer.

You looked over your shoulder to find him studying the floor between his feet, arms swaying loosely at his sides.

Sensing your observation of him, he confessed, “I took the bus. I’m between vehicles.” His chin lifted, tone hopeful, “But since I do not require sleep, I can drive through the night. That is if you don’t mind me driving your car.”

“Yeah Cas, that’d be great,” you smiled warmly. Your heart went out to the angel - he served as proof first impressions can be entirely incorrect. He wasn’t some fierce all-powerful soldier unaffected by the injustices of the world. He experienced hurt just like the rest of humanity, and the only thing keeping you from running across the room and hugging the wounded angel tight was the thought that it might make the subsequent lengthy car ride a bit awkward considering you’d only just met. Fishing the keys from your pocket, you tossed them his way.

He caught them without looking, a small smile erasing the sadness from his aspect as he made his way to your side, “Dean sometimes allows Sam to drive his car. Even a demon, Meg, once, but never me.”

“Yeah, well Dean doesn’t drive a car, he drives a surrogate child,” you grinned, scooping up your duffle and making for the stairs.

Marching close behind you, he mused, “I always wondered why he refers to it as a baby.”

You halted at the landing to peer once again into the depths of the angel’s expressive ocean blue eyes, “Don’t tell him I said that.”

Eyes sparkling, Cas nodded assent to keeping your comment secret, allowing a charming half-smile to quirk his lip sideways.


	2. Act II

Blame it on being over-tired. Blame it on a certain heavenly shade of blue you couldn’t shake when you finally succumbed to the tender embrace of slumber. No, blame it on the Winchesters. After all, they’re the reason you’re sound asleep with an angel at the wheel as the dawn light swirls misty gold on the horizon. To be more specific, blame it on the mountain of porn you weeded through on Dean’s computer the evening before to sort out your current destination. Whomever or whatever you blame, clearly you are in no way at fault for lucidly dreaming of Castiel, angel of the Lord, possessed of the bluest eyes in the history of blue, so blue, they might in fact have been the first blue in all of creation - it’s not like you planned to have the best sex dream of your life with him seated at arm’s length.

Cas’ brow furrowed, worry damped eyes flitting away from the foggy road to wash over your restless figure. Based upon your rapidly pounding heart, fraught respiratory effort, and troubled whimpers, he quite wrongly surmised you were in the throes of a vivid nightmare. Throat bobbing rigidly, he debated the emerging inclination to soothe your mind with his grace or let the nightmare run its natural course. If he hadn’t been nervous about the awkward burden of making conversation with a conscious human, it might have occurred to him to simply wake you up - this latter possibility, of course, did not enter his mind. Inserting himself into the dream state of anyone was intrusive, and he hesitated to cross the boundary having only just made your acquaintance. You had been kind, patient even, when unexpectedly confronted in the bunker by the agitated seraph. He understood he could be a challenging force and you’d been nothing less than accepting despite his poor show of sociability and, for lack of a better description, limited available angelic resources. You also seemed genuinely invested in finding Sam and Dean, and he didn’t want to compromise your trust, and thus the chances of aiding the brothers. In short, he determined he liked you and something deep within his being niggled in abhorrence at the idea of allowing you to suffer when he could ease your mind. Making his choice, he reached out, touching two fingers gingerly to your forehead:

_The angel’s fingers roughly kneaded your ass as he pressed wet open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your neck, pausing to mark your pulse point with a raking nip. Arching your back, whining at the stinging sensation, you ground your hips into his thick thighs, slick center rubbing against his clothed arousal, both of you moaning desperately for more friction. He grunted, animalistic, tearing your shirt open further, tongue trailing to lap the sweat pooling at your bosom. Fingers tangling into dark hair, you yanked him away, peering with a simper into lust darkened sapphire eyes. Smashing pliant lips to his, you delved to explore the salty-sweet taste of his mouth, mewling approvingly as soft hands slithered up your back, relieving you of your bra, drawing you flush to his firm torso with a sharp gasp._

Cas flinched, chest heaving, eyes startled wide to attention by the blaring of a semi-truck horn in the dense fog ahead. He swerved right to avoid collision, almost overcorrecting, lighting reflexes managing a safe return to the proper lane of traffic.

Blessedly undisturbed from your dream, you continued to moan, the angel’s name breathlessly muttering past your lips.

His long fingers flexed, clutching at the steering wheel, knuckles white, maintaining composure enough to guide the car off to the side of the road and put it in park. He shifted uneasily in the seat, casting a furtive glance in your direction, becoming acutely aware of the tightness of his trousers. Equal parts aroused, conflicted, and uncharacteristically self-conscious, his focus bounced around the cabin like a trapped animal - each guttural groan radiating from your body reverberating through his own with an electric shock. Growling under his breath, he flung the door open, fleeing across the road into an adjacent field without looking back.

The incessant dinging of the car dash alerting occupants to an ajar door ultimately roused you. Yawning, you rubbed your eyes, blearily staring at the empty driver’s seat. Working alone most of the time, you weren’t accustomed to seeing your car from this angle. Between the annoying dinging – you snatched at the keys, jerking them from the ignition to squelch the sound - and the odd passenger side view, any memory of the erotic dream wisped out of grasp as all the truly excellent dreams are wont to do. However, thoughts of the angel remained foremost in your mind – thoughts such as, for example, the immediate whereabouts of said angel.

“Castiel?” Unfastening the seat belt, you twisted around to check out the back window. There was no sign of him in the vicinity of the car. You opened the door, stepping out and squinting into the hazy morning. Circling around, you slammed shut the driver’s door, regard dropping to the road, observing dewy black footprints on the grey asphalt leading from the car to a corn field. Following the trail, nearing the opposite side of the road, you could make out a tall figure standing stone still several hundred yards in amongst the knee-high stalks of corn, swirling tendrils of fog burning off around him in the rays of daybreak streaking from the woodland beyond. Either it was the best looking scarecrow you’d ever laid eyes upon, or the angel appearing particularly heavenly in the glowing golden light. You set off towards the figure at a brisk pace, tugging the front of your jacket closed against the caress of cool air on your sweat dampened neck and chest, not slowing down to ponder the oddity of your perspiration despite the coolness of the morning air. “Are we building a baseball field out here?” You shouted, quickly closing the distance.

His head alone snapped sideways to acknowledge your approach. Looking at you without actually looking at you, Adams apple harshly dipping under a slack jaw, he queried, “Why would we need to build a baseball field?”

Hopping over a final corn row to sidle up beside him, you jostled his shoulder with your own, ominously whispering, “If you build it, they will come.” Voice normalizing, you continued, “You know, the movie with Kevin Costner.”

“Ah, Field of Dreams,” Cas bobbed his head knowingly, his contemplation returning to the brightening horizon.

“You’ve seen it?” Your eyes innately followed his toward the spectacular sunrise, an appreciative hum vibrating your throat.

“Not exactly,” Cas’ mind flashed darkly to the shadow of his time with Metatron, gravelly tone deepening, “the scribe of God told me about it once.”

“Oh, well, it’s a good film. We’ll have to have to sit down and watch it after we find Sam and Dean,” you broached the idea with such familiarity, it seemed a perfectly normal everyday downtime occurrence to relax and watch a movie with the angel.

Cas noticed, curious aspect tilting sidelong, intense sky-reflective blue-eyes drawn surreptitiously to study your sun-kissed countenance. Making a concerted effort not to express overt enthusiasm at your suggestion, he spoke flatly, “I would like that.”

“It’s a,” you bit your tongue before pronouncing the word date, “I mean, great.” You willed yourself to keep watching the sky, not wanting to appear too interested.

Persisting in staring, he risked reading the surface of your thoughts. Perceiving you had no recollection of the carnal dream, let alone his infringement upon it - much of his celestial being flushed with relief, a less perceptible part neatly housed in the area of his vessel’s heart quivered with disappointment - this same tiny part surged a fraction of a size larger when he sensed you thought of your post-hunt get together as a date despite not having said so outright. Human nuances of communication were perpetually confounding to the angel, and he made a mental note to ask Sam why people so often mean what they say, but don’t always say precisely what they mean.

“It’s beautiful,” you disturbed his introspection, enamored of the painted vista.

“Yes,” Cas murmured in response, ignoring the sky in favor of viewing you awash in the colorful glow of sunlight, “beautiful.” The tiniest of smiles touched the curve of his mouth and crinkled the corners of his gleaming eyes.

The rumbling purr of his voice sent a chill racing down your spine, the weight of unspoken attraction becoming too heavy to bear and prompting you to move. “Sam and Dean aren’t going to find themselves,” you blindly reached out to tug the elbow of his coat, not wanting him to see the excited blush of your cheeks, “let’s get.”

He followed behind, subtly narrowing his eyes in amused speculation, the smile still peeking through softened features, “The fact that there are two of them suggests the distinct possibility they could find themselves at any moment simply by looking at one another.”

You grinned wide, a giggle bubbling through your frame. Tamping down your expression to a demure smile, you spun around, continuing, however ill-advised a gait on uneven terrain, to skip backward, tone flirtatiously scolding, “I think you know what I mean, angel.” Ankle snagging on a rut, you unceremoniously tripped ass backward.

Before you could acknowledge the powerful unforgiving influence of gravity on a falling object - namely you - Cas dashed forward, winding strong arms securely around your back and scooping you tight to his chest with a muffled grunt. “And I think you should watch where you are going…,” he hesitated, gazing steadily into your eyes, blue irises contracting ever so slightly to darken his pupils. Mimicking your teasing tone, breath hotly fanning your face, he added, “human.”

Palms pressed to his muscular torso to steady yourself, a wave of déjà vu dizzied your perception.

He saw the fleeting flash of remembrance in your eyes, and fearing the dream would resurface he promptly released you.

Your fingers involuntarily clutched at and slipped from his coat lapels as he stepped out of your grasp, the disquieting sensation of misplaced recognition passing, “Thank you, Cas.”

He lowered his chin curtly, any hint of the smile beaming within his expression only moments ago once again hidden beneath a stoic mask.

You marched back to the car in silence, eyes on the ground before your feet, totally crestfallen by the angel’s abrupt change in attitude. One instant he appeared to warmly return your affection, the next, he couldn’t seem to escape your touch fast enough. Completing the remaining few hours of the journey to Clifton Springs, the angel driving so you could focus on research, the radio and wordless self-loathing filled the extended voids between comments strictly related to the mysterious 13-year death cycle surrounding the sanatorium and the business of locating the Winchesters.


	3. Act III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Be warned - this act contains explicit smut/NSFW/adult only content. After all, the third act is nothing without a climax [or two].

“How the hell did I miss this?” Vintage yellow photo thrust ahead at arm’s length, you squinted contemptuously between it and the modern angled shining building sitting on a rolling hill previously occupied by the notorious Clifton Springs Sanatorium - everything gleamed new right down to the freshly lain vibrant green sod.

Mapping uncharted recesses of thought at an overly decorous distance to your person, coat flapping in the grass-scented breeze, Castiel thumbed through the news clippings in John Winchester’s journal, comparing them to the small local newspaper he held announcing the grand opening of the Clifton Springs Senior Center – finally complete after five arduous years of construction setbacks. Holding a fluttering piece of paper to his nose, inhaling the smudged ink, his sky blues milled in confusion, “These clippings Sam collected about the sanatorium, they’re all very old. Ten, maybe eleven years.”

“Maybe even twelve or thirteen?” You peeped sidelong at the angel, jamming the old photo and your hands into your pockets, closing the distance to his side in a few short strides, “Maybe Sam decided to take up scrapbooking. Practical hobby for a hunter really, and certainly safer on his liver in the long run than Dean’s chosen one.”

“None of this makes sense,” Cas disregarded your sarcastic snipe at the Winchesters, refiling the paper in the journal, dark curls tickling his forehead in an errant gust of wind.

The more the angel ignored your efforts at teasing and prodding him out of his shell the more you felt inclined, obligated even, hell-bent one might say, to persist in re-establishing the flirtatious rapport you somehow lost in a random cornfield on the side of the highway at mile marker 156. You scratched your head thoughtfully, “You know, you’re absolutely right. Now that I think about it, he’s probably more of a paper mache guy.”

Cas squinted apathetically at you, unaware you interpreted this silence as a formal declaration of war.

Deciding it best to fall back for the moment and formulate a new line of attack, you shifted your concentration back to the case. “I hate small towns,” sighing, shrugging, lips thrumming as you exhaled, “news travels like lightening inside them, and at a snail’s pace out. But just because the sanatorium is history, doesn’t mean the curse, haunting, or whatever is scheduled to start killing people around here tomorrow is gone too.”

“Dear, why don’t you ask this sweet young couple for help,” a meek voice quivered behind your backs.

You and the angel turned around to find the source, discovering a deeply-lined frail woman in a wheelchair wringing her hands over and over and a hunchback pink-faced man panting and clutching knobby fingers at the handles of the chair.

“Hate to bother you,” the man wheezed, gesturing up toward the senior center, “but I’m afraid this incline has got the better of me. Old legs, old lungs, you know.”

“Oh, we’re not a…” You ceased your protest when Cas abruptly tossed the journal in your direction.

“Of course, allow me,” the angel smiled politely, assuming the elderly man’s place behind the wheelchair to relieve his burden, maneuvering up the walkway toward the center entrance.

“Thanks son,” the man waved him off, fissured countenance beaming when he faced you, “fine young man you have there.”

You accepted the man’s chivalrously proffered elbow, crooking your arm through his and shuffling forward up the hill. Your attention settled on the angel’s square shoulders as he walked several paces ahead, “And how can you tell?”

“Former army man I reckon,” the fellow spoke with an air of authority on the matter, “I can always spot a soldier. Ready to leap into action. Yes, indeed, fine young man you have.”

“You’re quite the keen observer,” you gave his arm a gentle squeeze, “mister?”

“Mr. Kinlay, Al,” he filled in the blank, pointing ahead, “my wife Marge. Sixty-two years we’ve been married.”

“Well it’s very nice to meet you both. I’m Y/N, and that fine young man you’ve so astutely identified is Castiel,” you couldn’t help but savor the feel of the angel’s name on your tongue.

“And how long have you two been together?” Mr. Kinlay innocently inquired.

The subtle rigidity hitching the angel’s gait informed you he could hear every word you exchanged with the old man - you decided to toy with him by revealing the thinly veiled truth. “Oh, it seems like we met only yesterday,” you chuckled, “I just knew he was an angel the moment I laid eyes on him.”

“Ah, young love, young love!” Mr. Kinlay bobbed his head, a nostalgic grin cracking his mouth. The center doors whined open on automatic hinges upon your approach. Mr. Kinlay excused himself from your side with a thankful pat on your hand, resuming his position behind his wife’s wheelchair, “Thank you, son. Much obliged.”

Mrs. Kinlay peered up between you and Cas, eyes twinkling beneath crepey skin as she looked the angel up and down approvingly, “He’s a dreamy one isn’t he? I remember when you were a strapping young lad like that, Al dear. And such a beautiful girl by his side.”

A rush of heat erupted across your chest, neck, and cheeks - the disremembered recollection of the erotic dream you had in the car on the drive here featuring the angel freed from seeming oblivion by the elderly woman’s words. Suddenly the whole waking up in an abandoned vehicle to find the angel in a field scenario made complete sense - he must know about the dream.

Mr. Kinlay wheeled his wife away with a parting wink, “I may not be a strapping young lad anymore, but Marge dear, you’re still the most beautiful woman in the world.”

“Y/N?”

You weren’t exactly a quiet dreamer according to past roommates - no wonder Cas balked when you touched him and went all business of the case. Your cheeks flushed impossibly redder.

“Y/N?” When you failed to respond to your name a second time, Cas’ fingers inquiringly touched your arm, “Is something wrong? You appear, unwell.”

You jumped, startled at the contact, heart and mind racing, somehow both losing as you barely suppressed the urge to flee, “No, uh.” Groping clumsily in your jacket pockets you produced an EMF reader, “Just thinking I should check for spirits as long as we’re here.” You bolted through the doors, mumbling, “Maybe you could ask around, see if anyone has felt cold spots, heard strange sounds, whatever. Meet back at the car in 15.”

Five minutes spent in the bathroom running cold water over your feverish face, and ten more wandering the halls fruitlessly searching for EMF spikes were enough to calm your nerves, at least the visible ones – or so you hoped. “I got nothing,” you huffed, approaching the car, striving to appear as casual as humanly possible while avoiding looking directly at the angel.

Cas leaned against the hood, arms folded across his chest, blankly staring across the parking lot. “Taking into account the poor circulation of the aged and infirmed and the tendency for hearing aids to malfunction,” he grumbled, “I got the same.”

You fished the phone from your pocket, scowling at the screen, “Nothing from Sam or Dean either.” On a whim, you scrolled through your contacts list and smashed your thumb on Dean’s smirking mug.

A nearby trash bin began to ring.

You exchanged a wide-eyed glance with the angel, immediately disconnecting and trying again.

The trash can rang ominously.

Cas strode over to the bin and wrenched off the top. Digging around, he produced a pair of discarded cell phones.

“I guess that explains why they aren’t answering,” you kicked the bin, groaning a combination of frustration and pain - the bin having been securely bolted to the cement walkway. For the moment, the pain gave you welcome distraction from your blundering sexual interest in the angel.

“It also tells us we’re on the right track,” Cas slipped the phones into his coat pocket for safekeeping.

“Right, silver lining,” your mind again wandered, wondering what else the angel had hidden in those bottomless pockets, and for that matter, under all those unnecessary layers of clothing. You mentally swatted the thought asunder, forcefully redirecting your brain to focus on the missing brothers, “Why the hell would they dump their phones?”

He narrowed his eyes, angling to read a tiny block print sign on the side of the bin, “I don’t know, but according to this town ordinance, these receptacles are required to be emptied every afternoon by 3PM.” He straightened up, gazing over at you, “That means Sam and Dean were here sometime during the past 24 hours.”

“It’s a small town, and those boys are nothing if not predictable,” a hopeful smile blossomed on your lips, “what do you say, angel? Do we check in to the kitschiest motel we can find, or grab burgers and pie at an all-night diner first?”

His nose crinkled, jaw slackening askance, uncertain if you were proposing tracking down the Winchesters based upon their well-known habits which somehow had not yet gotten them killed, or not so subtly propositioning him.

“Nevermind, let’s just go,” realizing the ambiguity of your phrasing in light of your apparent inability to control your oversexed brain, you spun on your heel, retreating to the car.

Twelve diners (in what you surmised must be a per capita ratio of 1 diner per 10 residents), one police station (the word station being quite generous for what amounted to a room smaller than most closets), and six motels (for some inexplicable reason all UFO themed) later, you found yourself sprawled face down on a bed in the last motel you’d canvased. You mumbled unintelligibly into the scratchy comforter, “I don’t understand how no one saw them. Sam is like 8 feet tall and they drive a freaking billboard advertisement for muscle cars.”

Cas sat on the opposite bed, slouched over, elbows resting on his knees, chin perched on folded hands, angelic ears managing to translate the intent of your mumbling, “Perhaps something prevented them from staying in town. Their father wasn’t exactly known for his tact and from the journal entry we know he has history here.”

You rolled over to glare at the ceiling, running your hands over your face and knotting them into your hair, “Maybe, maybe that’s why they needed backup. I don’t know Cas, it’s all so vague. All I know is we have to stay in town. If the kill cycle starts again tomorrow in spite of the sanatorium’s destruction, someone needs to be here to stop it and we’re on deck.”

“Agreed,” the angel pressed his hands to his knees and stood. Rummaging through his pockets he crossed the room to place the brothers’ phones and John Winchester’s journal on the dresser.

“I’m going to grab a quick shower,” you flopped from the creaky bed, shedding your jacket and toeing off your boots and socks before disappearing into the bathroom. Force of habit fostered as a lone hunter meant you didn’t bother to close the door; it simply didn’t occur to you as something to be done.

Cas began to tack up case notes and organize the spotty information you had collected regarding the 13 year cyclic deaths.

You drifted out of the bathroom after a few minutes, trailed by a cloud of steam, rivulets of water dripping from your hair and clad only in a loosely wrapped flimsy white towel which left nothing to the imagination, to search through your duffle whilst cursing under your breath about sub-par motel toiletries.

Eyes glossing over the old clippings and police reports, the angel caught sight of you in his periphery. He swallowed a low growl, unable to repress the involuntary reaction of his vessel to your exposed skin.

“Find something?” You glanced over, curious, alerted by the strange sound, triumphantly clutching lavender body wash to your bosom.

“No, um, it’s just very frustrating,” he stammered, fidgeting with a file folder and sheepishly looking everywhere but in your direction.

Quirking a bemused eyebrow, you shrugged off his odd behavior, returning to your shower.

The angel courageously endeavored not to allow his thoughts to dwell on you – naked, wet, attractive, and quite possibly thinking of him this very instant as you lathered your body. He resisted the urge to eavesdrop on your thoughts, instead valiantly reading and re-reading the gruesome autopsy details of victims, trying to dampen his arousal. The contented moaning noises you made as the hot water soothed your tense muscles making it increasingly difficult for him to do so. Overwhelmed to the point where he required retreat or relief, he dropped the case file to the dresser and made for the door.

“Where are you going?”

Your voice arrested his escape, mid-turn of the doorknob, “I, um, for a walk. To think, uh, about the case.”

“Wait up, let me get dressed. We can brainstorm,” you bent to grab clean clothes from your bag. When you glanced over at the angel to determine his response to your suggestion, he awkwardly stood sideways, fist still poised on the doorknob, shoulders rigid, staring at the dingy carpet between his feet as though he hoped it might open and swallow him whole. Eyes landing on the evident erection straining through his pants, you comprehended why he so urgently needed fresh air. Heart pounding in your throat, the change of clothes slipped forgotten from your fingers - the proverbial elephant in the room shattering any and all inhibitions you held. Drawing in a sharp breath, you embraced the route of boldness. Crossing the room, you reached out, laying a palm on his arm, speaking deliberately, “Castiel, you can go for that walk alone, or you can stay here and I can help you with your, predicament.”

He gulped hard, lust-blown pupils flitting to nervously regard you.

Edging nearer, fingers descending to suggestively tug at his belt buckle, you purred, “I think you already know what I’d prefer, angel.”

His expression darkened - seizing your waist, he pivoted and pinned your body to the door with a guttural growl, smashing chapped lips to yours.

Parting your lips, you submitted to the wanton dominance of his mouth with a moan, relishing the taste of late summer honey on his tongue. Shoving the trench coat and suit jacket over his shoulders, your fingers scrambled for purchase across the rippling muscles of his back.

His hands skimmed the curve of your hips to roughly knead your ass, lips breaking from yours to nuzzle and suck your neck, voice vibrating against your skin, “Is this what you want, human? Rough, like in your dream?” Stubble prickling delicate skin, he nipped and bruised the sensitive flesh of your pulse point.

Simpering, feigning shock, you rammed his chest with both palms, herding him backward with a dark glare until the backs of his knees hit the bed and he collapsed onto it, “Did you spy on me, angel?”

Shrinking into himself, his demeanor tempered apologetically, “I thought you were having a nightmare. I didn’t mean…”

“Shh, it’s alright,” you cooed, balancing your hands on his shoulders, straddling his thighs, settling into his lap and kissing the tip of his nose. He truly was a walking contradiction if you ever met one and you had no idea what to make of him - one moment he was a dominant, confident, virile seraph, and in the blink of an eye the uncertain, cautious, anxious, kind of pitiable, fallen angel re-emerged. You hooked a finger under his chin, lifting hooded eyes to meet yours, “Tell me, angel, did my dream excite you? Is that why you ran away?”

“Yes,” apprehension assuaged, his fingers nudged under your towel, thumbs rubbing small circles into your thighs, “and yes.”

You rocked your hips into his clothed arousal, eliciting a rumbling groan from his throat - the sinful noise inciting a rush of heat to your core.

“Y/N, wait…I,” he stuttered, higher reasoning battling carnal desire to regain composure. He firmly gripped your hips, thwarting the glorious friction you desperately sought, anxiety returning to trace his countenance.

“What’s wrong?” You studied the angel’s furrowed aspect, fingers tangling into the curls at his nape.

The line of his brow deepened, furtively meeting your questioning gaze, “I, uh, isn’t it customary for me to, um, buy you dinner first?”

An amused smile twisted up the side of your mouth, “Castiel, I don’t care what’s customary. I’ve wanted you since the moment we met. I trust what feels organic, do you understand?” Smile fading, you acknowledged the distinct possibility he didn’t feel the same, “If you don’t want this, just tell me.”

“I understand,” he relaxed his grip on your hips. Snaking warm hands up and around your back, he dislodged the towel from your torso with a small smile, “I do want this - want you. Very much.” His lips fell to pepper your collarbone with open-mouthed kisses, growling into your shower damp lavender-scented skin, he chided, “You never answered my question.”

“Hmm,” you tousled his hair, melting under his ministrations, shallowly undulating your hips as he bucked to meet your movements, “what question was that?”

“About your dream,” he lightly marked your collarbone with a nip, “how you want me to be.”

“Castiel,” hands falling to cup his cheeks, you pulled him up to your lips for a long tender kiss. Parting for air, softly gasping as you sucked and released his lower lip, your breath ghosted humid in his ear, whispering, “I want you to be you, angel.”

Your simple sentiment, a testament to the beauty contained within your soul, charged electrically through his celestial being. He grinned against your shoulder, in a fluid motion flipping you to your back and lying beside your languid figure. Gazing affectionately into your eyes, he swept a stray wisp of hair behind your ear. Pliant lips touched yours, unhurried, kissing you deep and slow and worshipfully. Burrowing his nose into your neck, he began to draw a meandering path down the center of your body, diverting to explore every divot and curve, attentively noting the locations which made you squirm with ticklish delight and those which caused you to writhe in pleasure, allowing his grace to linger tantalizingly at the latter spots as his fingers continued their keen exploration.

Eagerly anticipating his target as he inched below your navel, clenching and unclenching your thighs, you clutched at his hand, humming, “Cas, please, angel-” You encouraged him to move lower, “I need more.”

His mouth captured yours, again sweetly passionate. You shivered, moaning, as he cupped your aching sex, praising you, “Such a stunning creation, the purest soul housed within a most exquisite vessel, but so impatient.” Leaning over to lavish your breast with his tongue, swirling and sucking the hardened bud, he mercifully eased a finger into your throbbing center. Every flick of his tongue across your sensitive nipple mirrored the come hither curl of his finger - first one, and then another, and another dipping to stretch and fill you completely, igniting a fire in your abdomen. He worked your body slowly, thoroughly, until every nerve ending blazed with pleasure.

“Cas, mmm-close,” you mewled, walls tensing around his long fingers as he stoked your g-spot again and again. The tingling heat of his grace licked and engulfed your clit, setting you fully aflame, the burn of release sucking the very oxygen from your lungs, leaving you dizzied and panting.

“So beautiful when you come undone,” the angel kissed your sweat sheened temple, gradually withdrawing his grace, now cooling and comforting in its wake.

Dazed senses returning to a semblance of normalcy, you snuggled to the angel’s chest, pressing arousal swollen lips lovingly to his, shaky fingers fumbling to unbutton the crisp white dress shirt still separating you from his bare skin, “Castiel, I need you, all of you.” Buttons conquered, your fingers swiftly sank to unfasten his belt, simultaneously delving your tongue to explore his intoxicatingly honeyed mouth.

He groaned low, breath hitching when you palmed his rock hard arousal through the thin material of his boxers, wantonly grinding against your hand. Fingers needful, digging into your waist, he pushed you back to the bed, crawling to hover over your body, aspect wrecked with desire.

Gazing steadily into nearly black pupils, your thumbs looped to slip the boxers and pants down his hips in one motion, freeing his thick perfectly curved cock.

Weight collapsing onto your body, caging you within his arms, he rutted rhythmically against your dripping folds. Quietly praying, tone melodious, he kissed the salty skin of your neck - the words those of an ancient tongue, yet somehow familiar.

Untangling your arms, trailing fingers down his back, you reached between your bodies, stroking his cock and lining the tip to your entrance.

With a final choked chant, he sank into you, grunting, frame shuddering with the restraint required to still himself, allowing you to adjust to his girth.

Bending your knees to your chest to take him even deeper, you raked your nails up his back, breathlessly clutching his torso, “Angel, move.”

Every powerful thrust sent pleasure coursing through your quaking frame, surging down your thighs, curling your toes. Crossing your ankles, your heels pressed into his buttocks, altering the angle of his thrusts to hit your sweet spot. Increasingly ragged breathing, grunts, moans, and the obscenely wet slap of skin on skin echoed in the room. “Castiel,” you panted, teetering on the edge of orgasm, his name carrying the weight of your desire. “Cas-,” name catching in your throat, gripping his sweat-slick shoulders, head lolling to the bed as he dropped his head to your neck. “Cas!” Sharply gasping, urgent, tide breaking, pleasure flooded your senses, your walls pulsating around him.

Pace faltering, muscles trembling, he cried out your name. Plunging deep, cock twitching, he spilled his warm release. Rolling to his back, he cuddled you close to his chest.

Stretching an arm across his waist, a pleasure drunk grin painted your face, “Cas, that, you, you’re amazing.”

He combed his fingers lazily through your shower wet hair, a soft chuckle convulsing his chest, calmly confessing, “I’m relieved to hear you say so. The only other woman I’ve been intimate with turned out to be a reaper maliciously seeking information she wrongly thought I possessed.”

You propped up on an elbow to stare at him in disbelief, “Hold on, you’re telling me you’ve only had sex once before?”

“Well, we had intercourse multiple times that night,” he offered earnestly, “she killed me in the morning. Did you know praying mantis females kill their mates after copulating?”

“I didn’t, and Cas, I’m sorry that happened to you,” you pecked his cheek, nestling back into the crook of his arm, “guess it’s a good thing I’m not a reaper, or an insect.”

Happily sighing, Cas turned into you, winding his arms securely about you, placing a kiss on your forehead which bloomed into a blanket of warmth spreading thoughout your entire body.

Sated, sleepy, and soothed by angelic grace, you slipped into a deep slumber.

Hours later, the buzzing of a phone roused you. Or maybe it was the absence of Cas’ touch. Either way, the harsh light of a phone screen stung your dark-adjusted vision when your eyes popped open in alarm. Blinking, you could make out the slumped figure of the angel illuminated at the edge of the bed, “Cas, who is it?”

“Dean?!” The angel’s deeply concerned tenor was a contained thunder clap which sent you bolting upright.


	4. Act IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whatever happened to Sam and Dean Winchester anyway? Act IV is conveyed from the brothers’ perspective – their whereabouts and mischievous plotting revealed as the tables are unexpectedly turned.

“Y/N sounded pissed,” Dean snickered, tone not at all apologetic for the wild goose chase he and Sam sent you running on for the last couple of days. Driving up to the motel you and the angel were staying in, he set the Impala’s parking brake and smoothly released the clutch.

“Yeah, well Cas didn’t sound too pleased either,” Sam pointed out, groping blindly for his bag in the backseat, “you of all people know he hates being dicked around with. Well-meaning intentions aside, that’s exactly what happened here.”

“And there’s the real beauty of it Sammy,” Dean grasped his brother by the shoulder, “their shared anger will bring them even closer together. Real bonding material! Besides, how many times has Cas up and disappeared for days or weeks without so much as a word? No way in hell I’m feeling guilty about this one time, especially if it means he gets past this whole Debbie Downer shtick he’s been hung up on lately.”

“Right Dean. How totally selfless of you,” Sam smiled incredulously, shaking his head at his brother’s hair-brained scheming as he exited the car into the breezy night air. The metallic clatter of an ice bucket buffeted about the asphalt parking lot by the wind momentarily caught his attention. He dismissed it as a trivial detail.

Dean could barely contain the triumphant swagger threatening to burst forth from his person at any moment in the form of a victory dance, his green eyes flashing firework sparks in the pale artificial light as he hopped the small decorative fence in front of your motel door.

Setting you and Cas up to work a case together as a pre-text for meeting and falling hopelessly in love had been his idea. He’d known you for a good long while, appreciating your spunky but patient personality (spunky, but patient enough to endure his goofy shenanigans with a laugh and flat-out ignore any advances he made). He’d called you in on a few cases here and there over the years, keeping in touch with enough regularity to know you were still single and a little bit lonely as most hunters of your indomitable ilk tended to be. He also remembered your keen interest in hearing detailed accounts of his friend Cas, so much so you asked after the angel you’d never laid eyes upon every occasion you and Dean spoke, with Dean more than obliging in recounting (and frequently exaggerating) their unbelievable adventures – expounding Cas’ virtues like he was some fairy-tale prince for you to pine after. A supremely competent wingman, Dean laid the groundwork for your amorous inclinations toward the angel long before he knew what he was laying the groundwork for.

One caseless evening, teetering at the precipice of drunken insentience over a half-empty bottle of whisky with his mopey angelic friend planted dejectedly across the table droning on and on about bees or failure or some such nonsense to Dean’s disinterested ears, Dean’s inebriated mind divined the genius idea that you and Cas would be perfect for one another. Lord knew Cas needed someone spunky to inject some fun into his existence and show him the lighter side of life, someone patient and willing to listen to his endlessly odd meandering contemplations, to deal with his lack of hobbies beyond shadowing the brothers and the increasingly annoying 24/7 angels-don’t-require-sleep pacing of the bunker halls. Sure, Cas was family, but even family had its limits.

Cas likely would have brushed off Dean’s idea with nary a second thought, except for once Dean managed to kept his notoriously bombastic mouth shut. Sort of – he’d passed out, a thin string of spittle flowing over silent loose lips and cascading across the freckled back of his hand to pool on the table. Cas noted Dean did some of his most sincere listening whilst peaceably unconscious – mostly because the lack of voluntary muscle control severely hindered his ability to roll his eyes at the angel’s absurdly random musings.

Unlike Dean’s typical drunken theories, the notion of hooking you and Cas up still seemed absolutely brilliant when he awoke the next morning, head throbbing, cheek stuck to hand in turn stuck to table. Luckily, the first person he laid eyes on and enthusiastically spilled the proverbial beans to was his brother. Over a greasy diner breakfast to absorb whatever alcohol still circulated in Dean’s system and to avoid Cas’ innocently snooping angelic ears, Sam agreed to go along with the plan, primarily because Dean clearly wasn’t going to drop it any time soon and it was the fastest way to shut him up about it. Sam argued one caveat. He knew neither you or Cas would go along willingly on a traditional blind date. He also knew his brother would be unable to function in any kind of a normal and not overtly meddlesome capacity if you all simply worked a case together as an introduction. No, you had to be gently nudged in the right direction, free will and all being of utmost import – you and Cas had to choose each other, or at the very least have the illusion of choice.

Constructing a believable farce of a case (the best lies are based on truths – what better truth than a real case), setting the stage (leaving just enough clues in the bunker and bread crumbs in town to pique your interest and persistent concern), pulling the strings (ensuring you and Cas would both be at their beck and call at the same time and be compelled to help), and getting the logistics of the charade in place (easy-peasy when your late father, John Winchester, is something of a minor celebrity in the incredibly small town of Clifton Springs, NY where he saved the life of a perpetually grateful mayor’s son and his betrothed 13 years prior – all the folks in town practically tripping over each other to play their part in the strange production) – that was all 100% Sam Winchester. Yet despite Sam’s innumerable contributions without which none of this would have happened, and because the effort appeared to have been a resounding success based on Dean’s earlier phone call to Cas wherein he learned you and the angel evidently had gotten to know each other as intimately as possible, Dean Winchester intended to take full responsibility as match-maker extraordinaire.

Stationed before the motel door, fist poised to knock, Dean squared his shoulders and cleared his throat, donning a somber expression as he prepared to bask humbly in the glory of your everlasting gratitude.

Rolling his eyes, thoroughly done with the drama, Sam reached a lanky arm around his brother and thwacked a knuckle on the door – the door swung ominously inward without resistance.

Satisfaction stolen, Dean glowered at his brother before stepping jauntily across the threshold into the darkened room.

Intuiting something amiss, Sam’s bag dropped to the ground with a dull thud, his fingers instinctively reaching for and withdrawing the knife tucked discreetly inside his brown corduroy jacket. “Dean,” he warned in a hushed tone, yanking his brother stumbling backward by the coat collar.

“What?!” Dean whined, swatting Sam’s hand aside, ego too puffed up to recognize the blatant signs of a violent struggle before him.

“Dean, seriously?” Sam snorted, setting his jaw in the harsh manner that sufficed to belay both his worry and derision. He flicked the switch by the door, shedding further light on the situation.

Dean dispassionately examined the room – focus gliding over the unmade bed, overturned chairs and busted table, smashed picture frame, and random spattering of vivid red viscous fluid on the dingy carpet and multiple walls. He shrugged, snorting in retort, “Like I said, what?”

Sam’s square jaw threatened to dislocate just then under the gnashing force of teeth required to bite his tongue.

“Look, they’re just trying to get back at us,” Dean strode forward, picking up a snapped bloodied stump of table leg, using the pointed sliver of crimson painted wood to motion grandiosely around the room, “play us at our own game. The whole thing’s obviously staged.”

Wits undamped by over-inflated ego, Sam’s eyes alit on a wrinkled piece of pale beige toned mottled oddly familiar point of something vaguely flesh-like protruding out beneath the disjointed bed. Closer examination revealed the thing to be a crudely severed finger. And judging from the knobby rheumatic knuckles and age spots decorating the amputated bit, the severed finger of someone apparently elderly in years.

Dean could find no feasible way to explain this detached digit away as part of an elaborate payback hoax. You and Cas were indeed missing – really, actually, genuinely, and concerningly missing. Fortunately for everyone involved, Dean retains the remarkable ability to transition from jester to bad-ass hunter faster than anyone else in the known universe.


	5. Act IV - Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is adding a second part to the fourth act of a five act mini-series cheating? Cause if so, I’m guilty! Act V got long…really long. So here’s Act IV from the reader and Castiel’s perspective to tide you all over until the conclusion!

_“Dean?!” the angel’s deeply concerned tenor was a contained thunder clap which sent you bolting upright._

“What do you mean, where am I? Where are you?” Cas pivoted to face you, “I’m in bed.” Speaking to you, he tilted the phone from his mouth and lowered his voice to a barely audible whisper, “It’s Sam and Dean.”

Even groggy with the withering vestiges of sleep you’d managed to surmise as much on your own. In the split second before your temper flared, you acknowledged it was kind of adorable how the angel stated the obvious with such gravitas. But what you really wanted to know was where the hell the brothers had been all this time, and why they didn’t touch base until now.

“I’m being too specific?” with a roll of his bright blue eyes and a deep sigh, Cas directed his attention to the conversation with Dean, “Earth…well, you said…fine, we’re at a motel in Clifton Springs…off Elis Road near the former site of the sanatorium…yes, following up on your case.”

The angel was being far too forgiving with the route of dripping sarcasm– undoubtedly too overcome with relief to give the Winchesters the proper verbal vitriolic spanking they deserved. Flinging yourself bodily across the bed, you made an attempt to commandeer the phone, “Let me!”

Cas ducked in time to evade your wildly groping fingers. Rising from the bed, he backed out of immediate reach to avoid further attack, “I’m with Y/N…she’s right here…now you want me to be more specific?” He paused to scowl incredulously at the phone, “Yes, I agree, she does have a great ass, but Dean, I don’t see how that has anything to do with-” Cas wisely dallied in his reply when he caught sight of the apoplectic glinting of your eyes. “Um, she appears very eager to speak to you,” indubitably out of your grasp, Cas took the added preemptive measure of taking yet another step backward, “Of course, we’ll just wait here then.”

You crumpled into the mattress with a disappointed groan, mashing a pillow over your face and yelling a sequence of choice expletives into the sound dampening foam. Frustration somewhat mitigated by the stifled outburst, you remained buried beneath the thoroughly lambasted pillow.

“Y/N?” the bed shifted, Cas’ fingers grazing your arm. When you failed to stir, he cautiously lifted the pillow.

Heart swelling, you couldn’t help but smile up at the dashing angel, annoyance at the Winchesters dissipating beneath his concerned sapphire regard – the way he looked at you, like nothing else mattered more in the whole of creation itself, convinced you of the distinct possibility that nothing else, in fact, mattered more in the whole of creation itself. “Hey,” you muttered softly.

“Hey,” he echoed the sentiment, a small smile touching upon his mouth as he leaned in, lips tenderly brushing your own.

Fingers tangling his hair, body submitting to the absolute tenderness of the kiss, your mind unwittingly rebelled, thoughts fragmenting with each stampeding thump of your heart. The fractured shards careened off in a thousand directions – no one had ever looked at you that way, never before had you felt so at ease with someone, so much yourself, so natural, so complete, so…so in love. There, you named it – _love._ The scattered pieces instantly snapped back at this conception of love, coalescing all at once into a singular boomerang of realization that knocked you upside the head with the notion that, as it turned out, never before had you felt so acutely terrified – terrified he might not feel the same way, terrified of losing control, terrified you weren’t good enough, terrified of your humanity, terrified you didn’t deserve the happiness enveloping you within his loving embrace. Most of all, you were terrified that now that the Winchesters were safely found, nothing remained to keep you together. The terror spilled out beyond the borders of your mind, hardening your languid muscles.

Not requiring any special celestial mojo to perceive your emergent trepidation, he ceased kissing you. Baffled by the tenseness infiltrating your body, he drew back, studying your fretfully wrought features and the miniscule beads of sweat beginning to bud on your forehead, “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Your lips quavered, mouth agape, tongue thick and velvety and immovable behind your teeth, unable to summon the words to answer him aloud.

Swiping the hair from your forehead and planting a light kiss thereupon, he tried his best to allay your anxiety, allowing a calloused thumb to linger and caress the hollow of your temple. But the longer he peered into the barely concealed panic coloring your eyes, the more your worry began to perforate the defenses of his being, poking gaping holes in his resolve to shed light on the doubts he, too, shared. After all, in his limited scope of romantic experience, sex, no matter how great, was not necessarily an accurate barometer by which to measure mutual feelings of adoration. He was thankful you hadn’t attempted to poke holes in his vessel with an angel blade – this budding relationship already a resounding success based on his previous benchmark. He was hopeful for, though uncertain of the future. Unable to bear your silence any longer, he looked away, swallowing hard, dark lashes nervously fluttering, “Have I done something wrong?”

“Cas, no. No, not at all. It’s just…,” you seized upon the Winchester’s pending arrival as an excuse to shelter your psyche, at least temporarily, from the million reservations bouncing around in your skull rebuking the wisdom of your judgement regarding sleeping with the angel and then discovering yourself hopelessly in love with him, “Sam and Dean, when will they be here?”

“Twenty minutes,” Cas accepted the proffered distraction, himself glad to have something to focus on other than this strange new exhilarating but contrarily alarming emotion throttling his heart.

There was the rage stirring again in your mien. “Twenty minutes?” your teeth grated – that estimate meant the brothers had been nearby all along.

Cas simply nodded, limply rolling aside as you lurched out of bed. His forbearing gaze followed your naked form, captivated as you scooped up your previously discarded change of clothes and yanked, jammed, and shimmied the various hunter-requisite flannel-print, denim, and corduroy multiple layers over, up, and down your head, body, and limbs. It occurred to him he’d gotten off easy having only a skimpy towel to remove earlier, and that he’d very much like to take his time peeling every one of those articles of clothing right back off your exquisitely curvaceous figure.

Sweating under the intense supervision of his darkening pupils, your vision drifted to the empty ice bucket on the dresser and determined it presented an excellent opportunity to escape for a few minutes to think. Not that thinking was the best course of action right now, but the fact that you couldn’t think with the aroused and arousing angel in the room prevented the latter thought from reaching fruition. You snatched up the bucket, shoving it under your arm and murmuring over your shoulder as you made a bee-line for the door, “I’ll be right back.” You were careful merely to hope, rather than pray, that he’d get himself dressed while you were out – you weren’t entirely sure your frayed nerves could handle the sight of his broad bare muscular shoulders any longer.

The ice machine sat beneath a flickering bulb at the opposite end of the L-shaped motel. You chose the least direct route by sticking to the stained cement walkway in front of the line of rooms hugging the stretch of the L rather than crossing the parking lot in a straight line – it still didn’t take nearly long enough to arrive at the machine, nor did it take long at all for the ice clattering into the bucket to overflow. Wiling away the time you’d have to be alone with the potentially still disrobed angel and your nascent feelings of love and terror before the brothers arrived, you watched, transfixed, as the frozen cylindrical chunks poured from the mouth of the machine and bounced, crashing and shattering to the cement below, melting into shining gray oozing spots of varying size. Bored with the tiny puddles when they flowed into one dark pool, your gaze lifted to read the retro decorative script-print poster plastered on the front of the machine: _Ice made with genuine healing Clifton Springs water!_ Beneath the text was a painting of a forest spring with a beautiful youthful woman bathing in the waters and a handsome dark-haired blue-eyed man gazing on lasciviously from the shore. “Not helping,” you lamented to the crisp night air.

The harsh rasp of a throat clearing behind you startled you from your mind-numbing diversion.

The owner of said throat convulsed further into a phlegmatic fit of moist coughing.

“Mr. Kinlay?” you turned, squeaking in surprise, touching the boney shoulder of the elderly man you and Cas met at the senior center, “Al, are you alright?” You bolstered him upright and pat his back briskly until the cough evolved into a less serious sounding wheeze, “Where’s Marge?”

In answer, he clasped your wrist tight with both hands, peering solemnly at you, eyes mournful opaque blue cataracts in the sporadically blinking overhead light.

Something about the dull regret simmering in his aspect soured your stomach. A sharp pinch afflicted your captured wrist. “Ow!” you shook your arm free from his grasp, rubbing a droplet of blood from a minute stinging puncture at the base of your thumb. You gawked at him and the emptied syringe poised between his fingers in confusion. The motel abruptly spun, the bile in your stomach churning to rise in your gullet. “Wh-wh…,” you sputtered, woozy, fighting to control your lips which seemed suddenly to be a foreign entity outside your control, “wh-wh-what did you do?” You heaved your weight against the ice machine, numb fingers grappling for purchase on the handle of the bucket, sheer force of will hooking them around the slippery steel bar.

“I’m sorry, but it’ll all be over soon, dear,” the old man reassured you, the phrasing not so reassuring, his voice a distant echo in your ears.

You desperately swung the bucket around in an arching circle, bashing him square in the ribcage with a satisfying crunch. Not sticking around, given your impaired state, to determine the effects of your assault, you staggered into the parking lot in the general direction of your room. The widely zig-zagging sway of your gait was decidedly even less direct than your previous route from the room to the ice machine. You tried in vain to shout Cas’ name, tongue beyond hope of cooperation. You settled for the loudest prayer you could muster, _Castiel, help!_

Mr. Kinlay plodded along directly behind you, leaning heavily on his cane and gasping for breath, unbeknownst to you having the same destination in mind.

Careening into the doorframe, you discovered Cas on his knees, the room in a chaotic shamble about him. There stood Mr. Kinlay’s not-so-frail-after-all wife, Marge, behind him holding a gleaming piece of pointed metal threateningly to the angel’s stubbly throat. You surmised he’d been relieved of his angel blade, duped similarly to yourself, by the seemingly sweet elderly woman – angelic advantage either useless or summarily failing him.

Cas’ mouth moved defiantly for your deaf ears, and he received a knee to his vessel’s kidney for the effort.

The sight of him doubled-over, wincing in pain, surged the adrenaline already coursing your veins, instilling you with a renewed sense of vigor. You gurgled furiously, wheeling on the old man, the noise tearing out of your throat threatening to erupt into a full-fledged scream.

With swiftness defying his years, Al sprang forward to haphazardly cover your mouth with his wrinkled palm, aiming to silence you lest other motel guests be alerted to something amiss.

Strength failing as the increased pumping of your heart spread the poison ever more rapidly to your extremities, you assailed him in the only manner immediately available, biting down hard on his arthritic fingers.

Thrashing in pain, a spray of red spurting to paint the floor and wall, he released you to stay the flow of blood.

The sharp metallic taste of raw iron offending your taste buds, you disgustedly spat out the shriveled finger you’d coarsely extricated from Mr. Kinlay’s person. You leered at him, teeth bloodied, somehow managing a weak snicker of satisfaction at the success of your melee.

Marge seemed to be shouting now, mostly at her blundering husband, and in quite an angry tone based on her twisting features. She wrenched at Cas’ dark tousled hair with each fitful contraction of her lips, the angel blade dancing wildly over his jugular.

Wobbling deeper into the room, you made to help Cas, instead buckling slowly to your knees at the end of the bed – the comforter balled in your fist uselessly slid off the mattress as you clambered to stay semi-vertical. Every hammering beat of your heart reverberated to suck the sensation from your increasingly heavy limbs – your hold on consciousness hovering further and further from your tenuous grasp. You made one final intrepid effort to stand, your legs not at all on board with the plan. You sank to the carpet, pallid cheek the last bit to touch down on the dingy matted pile. Unable to move the useless lump of jelly your body had devolved into you gave in to the sense of peace blanketing your being.

Once the physical panic subsides, shock has a funny way of calming the mind and clarifying what’s important. In what might very well be your soul’s final seconds on Earth, all you desired was to drown in a sea of blue. You didn’t relive every fleeting moment of your life in rapid-fire succession as you imagined would happen. There wasn’t even a highlight reel of the road-so-far to be had. No, burgeoning black shadows fogging the periphery of your vision, you fought to focus on Cas – determined those preternaturally blue eyes of his would be the last thing you saw before the world went dark.

It was there, at the brink of unconsciousness, tranquilly accepting whatever fate had to offer, that things started to get weird.

Returning your serene gaze, Cas winked.

Yes, winked – the action concurrently heartening, defiant, and downright peculiar. And if your meager grasp on cognizance hadn’t failed you just then, you’d have had several questions regarding the blatantly arrogant gesture on his part in light of the current dire circumstances. You’d also probably have laughed a full-belly kind of guffaw at the clownish over-animated manner in which he actually winked – his whole face contorting comically from arching eyebrow to curling mouth. As it stood (or rather, didn’t stand at all) you did nothing save lie in a motionless human-shaped heap at Mr. Kinlay’s hobbled feet.

The old man jabbed you twice in the side with his cane for good measure to be absolutely certain you were sufficiently subdued.

Had you been capable of doing so, you wouldn’t have blamed him.


	6. Act V - Conclusion

“Y/N?”

The familiar rumbling whisper thundered through your pounding head with the boom of a freight train. You groaned in response.

“They’ve left for the moment,” the whispered onslaught continued, “there was a heated argument. Mrs. Kinlay did not want to miss bingo night at the senior center despite Mr. Kinlay’s wounds. Evidently, a Mrs. Reynolds recently returned from an extended cruise which was in reality a cover story for obtaining plastic surgery and the so-called botch job isn’t to be missed.”

You groaned again.

“Are you hurt?”

More discombobulated yet distinctly incensed syllables somersaulted from your tongue. You meant to say: _“Bingo? Seriously? Well at least something about those impostors stinks of being geriatric.”_

Cas took the irate tone of your incoherent groans as confirmation you were unharmed save for the diminishing effects of the cataleptic drug in your system, “They intend to perform some sort of ritual. We appear to be central components. Fortunately, it seems important to them that we remain largely unharmed.”

Functional alertness struck you all at once. You jerked against the restraints binding you to a chair, the commotion agitating and sloshing tepid water from the basin where your bare feet were submerged. The room was dim and windowless; the walls of concrete block with enormous red, blue, and yellow pipes towering around you. The ceaseless drone of a generator – no, a gargantuan water pump – deafeningly hummed. The raucous din roaring in your ears wasn’t a freight train, and the angel hadn’t been whispering at all – he was shouting.

“No point in struggling. I’ve already tried,” Cas said matter-of-factly, “the ties are bound by spell work.” His warm fingers squirmed to cover your hands to the extent his ropes allowed, offering what little consolation he could while being bound together back to back. You couldn’t see it, but his feet also soaked in a basin of water.

You let your head loll to rest in the cushion of his dark hair, your voice cracking dryly, “Cas, what the hell happened back there?”

“You mean, how was I overpowered by a 90-year-old woman?” he muttered wryly, angling his neck to bring his lips nearer your ears to avoid yelling so loud.

“I wasn’t going to phrase it quite as callously, but yeah,” you wondered how the fighting prowess of an angel of the Lord faired so miserably in hand-to-hand combat against a senior citizen.

“I wasn’t bested until she threatened me with ending your life,” he explained, “I heard your distressed prayer for help and had no choice but to cooperate.”

You pictured the stoic square set of his jaw and the sincerity glistening in his blue eyes as he recounted the story. He said he had no choice, but that wasn’t true. He could’ve kept on fighting, evaded capture, held out until the Winchesters arrived – instead, he chose to save you. Regardless of the situation, you’d never been on the receiving end of a more romantic gesture. Forget flowers, chocolate, and whispered sweet nothings, you’d take self-sacrifice over that kind of clichéd hokum any day. The realization that you needed him to know how you felt before it was too late again overwhelmed your thoughts. _I love you_ , you tried the declaration first in your mind – no superfluities, no chance of confusing him with vague allusions. No more running from love – whether because you were presently forcibly chained in place to the owner of your heart, or not.

“Also, as I’m sure you can agree, the element of surprise was skillfully effected here,” Cas added, “I may need to reconsider my preconceived notions regarding the elderly.”

“Cas?”

He kept on rambling, tone distinctly apologetic, as if the entire debacle were somehow his fault, “And she possessed a strange command over my vessel…”

“Castiel?”

“…one which inhibited any of my abilities beyond the woefully inadequate human strength limited to me in this form.”

“Cas!”

“The upside being that they don’t seem to know I’m an-”

“Angel, I love you.”

He hushed with such swiftness and stillness you would have thought yourself abandoned if not for his fingers still pressed soothingly over your trembling ones.

You held your breath, certain your heart was thumping louder than the pump and about to burst forth from your ribcage.

He remained motionless and unbearably silent.

Tears verging on the corners of your eyes, you defaulted to plucky defensive sass, “That element of surprise is a real bitch, eh?”

He found his tongue, stammering, “Y/N, I-I don’t-”

“Cas just forget it, okay?” you choked, cutting him off, not wanting to know how his sentence finished. The options were endless, and you couldn’t currently fathom any in your favor.

Waylaid by your confession of love, he sat there, jaw agape, cursing himself for his ineptitude once again at navigating the dicey sea of human emotion. He knew he profoundly failed you in his delayed and fumbling response – the truth was he didn’t know what to say because he didn’t exactly understand what he was feeling, and this truth was better left unuttered.

You began an internal tirade: _You idiot! It was just sex and you went and fell in love. He doesn’t love you. How could he? He’s a freaking angel. You barely even know each other. A few days working a case together and you lose your damn mind. What the hell were you thinking?_ With a shaky sigh, you wrangled your spiraling emotions, concentrating your focus on basic survival – one crisis at a time, and your imminent peril merited top priority. You steeled your nerves to speak, “What are these things parading around as old fogies anyway?”

“Benefactors, my dear,” a meek female voice answered.

Cas’ thoroughly distracted angelic ears had failed to detect the soft scuffle of slippers announcing the return of your captors.

“Look at this mess you’ve made,” Marge bent to fret over the spilled water around your basin.

“Messes are my specialty,” you snapped, referring not to the water, but life in general right now.

The old woman straightened her back creakingly, “Al, be a dear and fetch more water.”

Unhearing, Mr. Kinlay fidgeted with the white linen bandaging his hand.

“Hurry up, you impotent old fool!” Marge commanded.

Al twitched in his wrinkled skin suit, gimping figure scurrying out of sight.

Marge smiled, sweetly innocent. “Now where were we? Ah, of course! These hunters,” her eyes twinkled knowingly, “yes I know exactly what _you_ are, my dears.” She went on, “These hunters think they deserve an explanation.”

“These hunters are going to end you!” you spat.

“Feisty young thing, isn’t she? Yes, you’ll do nicely,” her smile stretched haughtily.

You nagged, pilfering time to come up with a plan of escape, “What’s with the bondage-themed spa experience anyway? Here I would have thought cold tea and stale cookies were more bogus grannie speed. You know, just between us girls, it’s kind of turning me on. I really hope there’s a sadistic hot stone massage lined up for later.”

“And this one is heavenly, isn’t he?” unruffled, she ignored your unashamed heckling as her crinkled fingers admiringly stroked Cas’ prickly cheek, dipping to fuss with and straighten the knot of his tie.

“You have _no_ idea,” Cas retorted calmly, breaking his silence. He gave your hands an emphatic squeeze as he spoke.

You suddenly understood the meaning of the bizarre wink at the motel, and what he had attempted to relay to you before you abruptly dropped the L-bomb: _The upside being that they don’t seem to know I’m an…angel. They have no idea he’s an angel!_ You weren’t clear how this helped matters, but you were damn sure it didn’t hurt to have a surprise of your own in store for these geezers.

Al reappeared with a silver pitcher to re-fill your basin.

“So confident too, my Al could do with a bit of that confidence,” she shook her head wearily, “isn’t that right, Al dear? Al!”

The old man nodded agreeably even though he hadn’t heard any of her comments over the noisy water pump.

“It’s nearly time!” Marge mimed pointing to a watch, “Get the chest.”

Al wandered arthritically off into the maze of pipes.

Marge continued her speech, “As I was saying. A hunter came here years ago…”

“Thirteen years ago, right?” you rudely interjected, mimicking her cloyingly sweet smile. “Yeah, good friend of mine,” you lied, never having actually met John Winchester.

The old woman snarled, spiteful foam forming at the crinkled corners of her mouth, “That hunter killed my sister. After everything we’ve done for this town and we ask so little in return – merely to be loved. Calliphaea did not deserve the violent death dealt to her at a hunter’s hands.”

“Uh huh, can you fast forward to the part where you tell us what exactly you are?” you griped – at this rate Al would return and derail her rant. You briefly wondered why John didn’t mention any of these crucial details in his journal considering he’d apparently killed one of whatever these creatures were.

Marge sneered, “Humans call us many names – I am Iasis, daughter in the sisterhood of the Ionides. We are water nymphs, naiads, the undine. For time immemorial we have healed the people drawn to our springs. Once the sanatorium here was renowned in the far corners of the world. People flocked great distances to bathe in the healing waters.”

“We followed a historical trail of death, not miracles, to find you,” Cas astutely pointed out.

“Necessary sacrifices,” she asserted. “Did you ever stop to think about why a town as tiny as Clifton Springs needs senior housing? It’s because of us. The trappings of old age, not disease, is the nemesis of these people. A tragedy once a generation is simply fodder for these crones to reminisce about in the dull hours of their long lives. Once my sisters and I were worshipped, revered, adored. When the love of humans trickled and dried,” she gestured feebly around the stark mechanics of the room, “when this abomination was built to harness our spring, our life-sustaining essence, we improvised.”

“You murdered!” you accused.

“We adapted!” she countered.

Al materialized with an oblong bundle wrapped in silk.

Iasis gazed wistfully upon him, “When I met my Al, I again knew what it was to be loved.” She moved closer to you, shriveled grisly lips brushing over your ear in a low croaking whisper, “I see the way this man Castiel looks at you with true devotion in his eyes – wouldn’t you do anything to bask in his love forever?” She backed off, false teeth clicking, “I’m giving you forever dear, doesn’t that sound nice?”

You were too preoccupied straining to recall the scanty lore on nymphs retained in your memory to pay her much heed. _Elemental creatures_ , you remembered being bored witless reading about them in an obscure musty text once, at Bobby Singer’s house of all places. _God, that was ages ago!_ You met Dean for the first time that same trip. He was a barely contained mess of edgy nerves, vibrant green eyes, and self-assured posturing futilely searching for his missing father then. You fatefully exchanged numbers out front beside a wrecked Mustang, just in case you ran into a hunter of John’s description or came across any leads in your travels. Dean barreled in and out of that salvage yard, en route to Stanford to meet up with Sam, so fast he spared only a fleeting wisp of breath to comment on your great ass as he departed. You nearly tossed his contact info, thinking he was just like every other propositioning chauvinistic pig of a hunter you crossed paths with, but Bobby swore up and down Dean was a good kid, and an even better hunter – that stress had a funny way of subjugating his manners. The fond image of the curmudgeonly hunter brought the recollection of the text flooding forward: _Supposed extinct since the early 19th century, reclusive healers, elementals grounded in fresh water sources especially potent, propensity for cruelty if provoked, quartz crystal consecrated by the four elements impaled through the heart will snuff them._ You didn’t suppose you’d be lucky enough for Cas to have one of those handy in those deep trench pockets of his.

“I asked you a question!” Iasis slapped you smartly across the cheek.

“Leave her alo-”

She strangled Cas’ objection with a tic of her hand, “Young man, in my domain I dictate the orders. Are you aware the human body is composed almost entirely of the fluid element of water?” She freed her invisible hold on his throat.

Cas narrowed his eyes contemptuously, “Yes, I am aware of that fact.”

“Then you’d do well to remember it,” she cautioned, “for you flimsy little humans, water is life.” She snapped her fingers, “And death.”

The air in your lungs turned boggy. A hiccup-like spasm seized your diaphragm and you began to cough, convulsing and sputtering endless rivulets of cool clear water out of your lips and nose.

Helpless to do anything save beg for your life, Cas twined his fingers with yours, “I’ll remember. Please…I’ll do whatever you want. Please…please don’t hurt her.”

Satisfied with the effect of her demonstration, Iasis smirked and jerked her knobby fingers.

Spasmodically gasping, your lungs cleared. They painfully seared as you sucked to inflate them again with air.

The nymph turned her back on you, gently unwrapping the folded layers of silk surrounding the oaken box held aloft in Al’s upturned arms. Her voice tinged with distain, “Unfortunately, in binding my immortal essence to Al’s soul, I became one of you. Human. And these decrepit vessels can only be sustained for so long before they require replacement.” She withdrew two large glassy tapered quartz crystals from the box, “Our love must endure.”

“Then you intend to take us as new vessels?” Cas’ brow furrowed askance.

You stared achingly at the crystals – you’d bet your life they were conveniently consecrated by the four elements to perform this particular ritual. _Cas, if you can hear me,_ you prayed, _we need to stab her in the heart with one of those crystals._

Cas heard you, squeezing your hand tight in confirmation.

“It’s beautifully poetic, don’t you think?” Iasis hobbled over to immerse a crystal in the basin of water at Cas’ feet, “We’ve always chosen young lovers for our new hosts. No one bats an eye when an old married couple knocks off together, especially one as inseparable and devoted to each other as we are. Think of it this way, in Al and I, your love will bloom evergreen.”

“Well, when you put it like that it sounds so…yeah, it still sounds completely insane,” you rolled your eyes, “And vaguely like the lyrics of a creepy alt-Ed Sheeran song.”

“Al, dear, it’s time,” Iasis announced.

Al dragged himself over to stand in front of Cas.

“Y/N, do you trust me?” Cas loosened his grasp of your hands.

You frantically tried to peer over your shoulder, “Cas, what’s happening?”

“Do you trust me?” he repeated.

“Yes, yes I trust you,” you replied, “but what’s going on?”

“It’s okay,” Cas’ gruff voice reassured you, “I think it’s best if we don’t protest.” The angel strongly suspected he would be able to interfere with the transfer process of the ritual, celestial energy unencumbered when Al’s soul penetrated the physical boundaries of his vessel. And surely he couldn’t fail you twice in one evening. He slipped his fingers from yours, evasive when you went hunting for them again.

“There’s a good boy,” Iasis flashed a pleased-as-punch smile at Cas, passing the other crystal to Al, “you remember the incantation, dear?”

Al bobbed his chin, raising a wilted hand to pull the cap from the balding spate of his head and hold it to the wool vest hugging his shallowly puffing chest. He began to chant in a language utterly foreign to you.

Cas observed the surging white glow of the crystal in Al’s clutches. In a blinding luster of luminance, the energy arched to strike the crystal submerged in the basin at his feet. The angel slumped limply forward against the enchanted bindings.

Al’s former body crumpled to the floor with a sickening wet plop.

“Cas!” you shrieked.

“Quickly now, Al dear,” Iasis undid the bindings securing Cas to the chair, “it’s my turn.”

He stumbled from the chair, clumsily bowing to retrieve the crystals, obediently circling to drop one of them in your basin.

“Cas?” you entreated.

He refused to so much as look at you.

Iasis tottered into position in front of you, a cruel smile plastered across her features, “I’m ready. Hand me the quartz, my love.”

No quartz was tendered over.

“Al?” she jolted electrically, features contorting, limbs contracting then going lax.

The water pump chugged ominously shriller, metal pings and pops sharply echoing off the concrete walls as the pressure swelled.

Cas’ arm roughly anchored around her shoulders as the pointed end of the crystal emerged glossy and bloodied through the center of her chest. He leaned nearer to whisper in her ear, supporting her weight as she collapsed, “I’m not your love, that sentiment belongs to another.”

Incapable of hearing him over the ruthless churning of the pump, you tried and failed to read his lips.

Iasis’ mouth parted as if to scream – a veritable river of water poured out.

The angel eased her lifeless vessel to the floor.

A colossal screeching of metal commenced, pipes bursting asunder one by one to inundate the room with explosive blasts of water. The floor rapidly began to swamp.

Cas unbound you from the chair and helped you to stand. He bellowed something in your ear, the deepness of his voice unable to cleave through the escalating racket.

Piercing pain shocked your ankle and shot up your calf as the water gushed around your feet, slamming a chunk of metal into your leg. You vexed yourself for crying in front of the angel, thankful the spray of water masked the salty tears streaking your cheeks. The physical pain was simply an excuse to let the tears flow. You wanted to vomit. You didn’t. The room swirled around you in a chaotic blur.

Cas swept you up in his arms and fled to the exit.

Rocking safely within his strong embrace, you clung to the sopping wet lapels of his trench coat, burying your face into his chest, and closing your eyes. When you deigned to open them again, Sam’s was the first face you saw.

“Hey Y/N,” the younger Winchester wore the characteristic small cheerful smile he reserved specifically for boosting spirits.

“Sam?” you attempted to sit up.

“Woah, take it easy there sweetheart!” Dean pressed a palm firmly to your shoulder, “You don’t want to pass out again. Trust me.” He smirked, green eyes glinting mischievously, “I had to stop Sammy here from drawing obscene objects on your forehead with a permanent marker.”

“Come on Dean,” Sam whined, “that was your idea.”

“So immature,” Dean shook his head disdainfully.

“What happened?” you swatted Dean’s coddling hand aside, “That last thing I remember…”

“Orthostatic hypotensive syncope,” Cas enumerated from the end of the bed.

“Gesundheit,” Dean coughed into the back of his sleeve.

Cas scowled at Dean.

“What?” you looked to Sam, the sensible brother, for a translation.

“It means you fainted because you stood up too fast,” Sam rubbed his chin, “probably a side effect from whatever drug you were injected with.”

“That’s good,” you murmured thoughtfully.

“How is that good?” Dean took the bait.

“Cause now you two have at least a solid few minutes to explain to me where the hell you’ve been all this time while we worked your case before I regain enough strength to kick your asses,” you replied, brandishing a disapproving frown.

Cas flipped the blanket up over your feet and clasped his fingers around your swollen and bruised ankle. He met your curious gaze with the trace of a smile softening his dour features, advising, “You’ll need this healed to properly kick _both_ of their asses.” His grace spread warmly through your foot and leg, healing the sprain.

“Thanks…,” you wavered to add the term of endearment, angel, that perched naturally on the tip of your tongue, “…Cas.”

“Yeah, thanks, Cas,” Dean scoffed, “You could have let us have a running start.”

Cas gifted Dean with another unamused scowl. You got the impression from the finely tuned aesthetic of the expression that he did that a lot.

“Clock’s ticking boys,” you impatiently clucked your tongue against the roof of your mouth.

“It was Dean’s drunken idea,” Sam caved first, seeking to release himself of any blame by doing so.

Betrayed by his own flesh and blood, Dean made a sound like a mortally wounded animal.

“Hmm, I don’t doubt it,” you vaulted an inquiring brow in Dean’s direction, “Spill it, Winchester.”

Dean fixed his brother with a steely gaze, “Perhaps you should ask my sweet, innocent, gigantic little brother of an accomplice to hand over the contents of his left front coat pocket.” Dean refused to go down with the ship alone.

Sam’s eyes widened, giant stature shrinking under the weight of the accusation, the shift in body language alone fairly admitting to his guilt as a co-conspirator.

“Touché,” Dean mouthed the word silently to Sam, embellishing it with a wink.

Sam produced an off-white lined piece of paper folded into quarters from the aforementioned pocket, thrusting it in your general direction, all the while glaring indignantly at his brother.

Once or twice Dean glanced away, feigning interest in a speck of dust clinging to the wall, a misalignment of the wallpaper over there, a loop of carpet snagged loose in the corner, only to find Sam still burning a hole in his skull when he again dared to peek over. It made Dean’s skin crawl. After all, Sam hadn’t lied – it was Dean’s drunken idea.

You plucked the paper from between Sam’s clinched fingertips. Unfolding it to reveal the contents, you immediately recognized the neat black ink handwriting as belonging to John Winchester – the paper obviously a page neatly removed from his journal. Skimming the words, you realized it detailed the conclusion of John’s hunt here in Clifton Springs thirteen years ago, outlining the successful slaying of a lovelorn nymph calling herself Calliphaea who had run amuck in the town trying various young women on for size then discarding their lifeless bodies like ill-fitting articles of clothing. She wielded sacrosanct crystals juiced up by a particular alignment of planets occurring every thirteenth year. Curiously, these crystals went missing before he could secure them. John wrongly surmised the nymph was a one-hit wonder and labelled the hunt case-closed. In short, this single slip of paper contained a mountain of exceedingly useful material which would have saved you and Cas a heck of a lot of mis-adventure and a close call with death because, for starters, you never would have left the bunker to follow up on a closed case. Why Sam and Dean withheld this key piece of information, led you and Cas blind-folded into danger, and then ignored all attempts at establishing contact, was beyond your imagining. Dean’s drunken idea? Even drunk, you had a hard time believing Dean could be that malicious, and as far as you knew, you hadn’t done anything deserving of such cold-hearted treatment. You offered the page to Cas for perusal. “Why?” the single word query was all you could muster.

“Look…,” Dean began.

“We’re sorry,” Sam spoke over whatever excuse his brother was going to try and make, knowing the situation warranted an apology first and an explanation second, “This wasn’t supposed to be a real case.”

You wagged your head in disbelief, “What are you talking about? You left leads at the bunker. We followed the research.”

“We thought you were missing,” Cas chimed in, glancing up from the paper, “or worse.”

“I know, we know,” Sam lowered his gaze, “trust me, if we’d known there was any danger we never would have let this charade go on for as long as it did.”

“Charade?” you peered scathingly between the brothers, “A deranged geriatric water nymph and her narcotic-laced-syringe-wielding husband nearly killed me! Would have too if it wasn’t for Cas being an angel and all. Some charade!”

“You saw the journal entry, we thought our dad eliminated the threat here,” Sam counseled.

“She had a sister. Calliphaea had a sister,” you grumbled.

“The really nutty ones always have a sister,” Dean bemoaned.

“Not helping, Dean,” Sam scolded, rubbing his hands exasperatedly over his face.

“Look,” Dean began again, dissatisfied with his brother’s diplomatic approach, “this whole shebang was a set-up, an excuse to get you and Cas together. _Together_ , together. A bonding experience if you will. No real danger, just some implied peril with a couple of not-actually-missing friends nudging things along in the right direction while warming the seats at a cheesy honky-tonk bar just across the county line.” He inserted his patented brand of off-kilter commentated reflection to try to lighten the mood, “Great strawberry daiquiris, by the way. You know, if you’re into girly drinks.” It didn’t work.

“I think you should leave,” you stated in no uncertain terms.

Sam and Dean wasted no time stealing themselves to the exit.

Cas stood stationary at the end of the bed, watching them go.

“You too, Cas,” it pained you to say it, but you needed some time alone. Time to think. Time to ponder how you felt having learned this whole ordeal was a sham-gone-sideways.

The angel met your gaze, a dejected haze muddying the crystal blue of his eyes as they searched yours and perceived the detached sincerity of your request – it instilled him with a sense of emptiness unlike anything he’d heretofore experienced. He was unsure what to say to console you, to plead his case for remaining by your side, to insist that the emotion he felt stirring inside himself toward you existed separate from Sam and Dean’s meddling. Wary of using the wrong words again, haunted by and frightened of repeated failure, he said nothing at all and slipped mutely from the room.

Over-wrought, weary of mind, body and heart, you sank into a dreamless sleep. You awoke late the next morning to gently caressing beams of sunshine spilling through the curtains to touch upon your cheeks. The beams flickered and skipped around you, broken in fits by the flutter of leaves in swaying trees outside the motel. The dance of light tickled your sleep-bleared vision; you couldn’t help but smile at the effect until you remembered – remembered curtly sending the angel away, remembered the anguished look clouding his aspect, remembered that despite the ridiculous circumstances under which it happened, in spite of yourself, you loved him.

Rolling from bed, you spotted your phone on the dresser. Like everything else in your possession last night now meticulously arranged on the wood surface, it had gotten saturated in the torrent of water. You realized it didn’t matter; you didn’t have Cas’ number anyway. You’d been inseparable these few days, and never had reason to get it. You didn’t suppose the phone directory would conveniently contain a listing for angels. You smacked your palm to your forehead, jostling your apparently also waterlogged mind – you could always pray. Your idea was deflected by the notice of an envelope slipping beneath the bottom of the door. Circling cautiously nearer, craning your neck, you read your name scrawled in perfect winding script across the front. You picked it up, turning it over in your hands a few times before carefully unsealing the flap.

The note composed inside read:

_Y/N,_

_As you don’t wish to be in my company at present, and since in your presence I seem incapable of articulating what I mean, I’ve taken the impetus to write you this letter in an effort to restore all that which has been lost without fear of making the already regretful circumstances worse._

_Firstly, regarding the grievous mess instigated by the Winchesters – while the error in Sam and Dean’s judgement is unquestionable, their hearts are in the right place. More than once they’ve forgiven me for doing far worse with the best of intentions. Each time I wonder what I have done to deserve such a loyal friendship as theirs has been. I sincerely hope for their sake, with time, you might find it in your heart to absolve them of their guilt._

_Above all else, I owe you an apology. You declared your love to me, and in the delicate fleeting moment you bared this most reverent of emotions lodged within the bounds of your kind heart and beautiful soul to my unworthy being, I humbly failed to reciprocate the sentiment. It was not then, nor is it now because I do not love you in return._

_This feeling when I’m with you, when you look at me, when we touch, when you laugh, when you smile, when we’re apart, when I think of you – there is no word in my vocabulary with which to contain it, none in any language I know, and I expect a term may not exist anywhere in the whole of creation itself. What you mean to me…it is so much more than love._

_If you’ll allow me, I vow to spend the rest of my existence endeavoring to define for you all that you are to me._

_Yours, Castiel_

Note held quivering in your fingertips, dewy tears brimmed your eyes to spatter and smudge the ink in spots. Smearing your wet cheeks with the backs of your hands, you twisted the doorknob and swung in the door.

Castiel, your angel of contradictions, abided patiently on the other side – for all his awkward ineloquence in speaking his heart, he was nonetheless a poet. His sky-blue gaze illumined an impossible shade brighter when his eyes alit upon yours. He said nothing – everything that required saying already fluently expressed in the letter still held in your trembling grasp.

Awed to the point of speechlessness, you might have stood there in the rapt quietude gaping at him for hours if it wasn’t for your noticing the laptop tucked in the crook of his arm and your habitual neurotic impulse to fill silent voids with mundane observation. “What’s with the computer?” you sniffled, tears abating, “I thought you were strictly low tech.”

If Cas was surprised by your redirection, he didn’t let it show in his reply. “Sam loaned it to me,” he answered unfalteringly, “If you recall, you suggested we should watch a movie together when the case concluded.”

A delighted smile frolicked across your features at the pleasant shared memory, “I remember, in the corn field with that stunning sunrise.” Closing your eyes for a moment, you vividly evoked the elating combined warmth of his regard and the rising sun on your face, murmuring, “I fell, and you caught me.”

A blushing smile reflected in the angel’s aspect – he fell too, there in the corn field – fast and far and forevermore. “I asked Sam to arrange it so we can watch it on this device,” he offered you the computer, “That is, if you still want to…with me.”

“There isn’t anything else in the world I’d rather do right now, angel,” you shifted onto the tips of your toes to press a soft kiss to his unshaven cheek.

“Then, it’s a…,” he bashfully regarded the ground between his shoes, shuffling his weight from foot to foot, a full grin unfurling across his flushed countenance, “it’s a date?”

“It’s a date,” you clasped his hand in affirmation, giggling as you tugged him over the threshold and into your open arms. A date, a fresh start, and precisely the nudge neither of you knew you needed – all thanks to a freaking Winchester, no less.


End file.
